


The Firebreather is Beneath the Clover

by Argyle



Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dress Up, F/M, Genderplay, Post-Canon, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Hatter's unbirthday, and Alice knows how to celebrate in style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Firebreather is Beneath the Clover

It's nigh on teatime, but Hatter is still fiddling his way through the morning crossword, the whole of him stretched comfortably across Alice's sofa with a bowl of snack mix perched at the ready on his chest. It isn't Sunday, but he _feels_ that it ought to be: there's a calm to everything, and it's not as though he has a better place to spend his time.

There is no better place.

And there's no better thing than Alice's breath on the back of his neck, her tongue toying teasingly at his earlobe. "Oh ho," he murmurs appreciatively. He moves his bowl to the end table, but only out of precaution. He isn't going anywhere.

"I have something for you," says Alice, still behind him.

Hatter grins. "Yes, dear? And what's the occasion? It's not my birthday."

"Well," says Alice. Her hands come round Hatter's shoulders and she slowly runs them down his chest, then back up to undo his second and third shirt buttons. "Don't you have an... alternative for that in Wonderland?"

Hatter racks his brain. There is of course Migglemuss, but that's not for another three months. And he'd petitioned long ago for Trilby Appreciation Day, though that had hardly made a splash with the court. It isn't Halloween, nor Thanksgiving -- last year, Alice made a bit of a fuss about those in advance. Not the New Year, not the Queen's Jubilee.

"Um," he says, struggling. Then it hits him. "It's my unbirthday, yeah?"

"Yeah." Alice lets out a low little laugh, then reaches round again.

She's holding a gloriously gaudy silk cravat done up in plum paisley, and Hatter shivers as she expertly tucks it beneath his collar and then ties it at his throat. Funny, but he never realized she could be so skilled at getting clothes _on_ him.

The fact shouldn't be a surprise.

What does surprise is this: Alice then standing before him, her hair hung round her shoulders in loose curls, her lips grown into a mischievous smile, and the rest of her clothed in cotton and lace and ruffle, white and pale blue, and stockings and patent-strapped shoes.

He's seen the pictures; he knows the story. This is Alice of legend.

And this is his Alice.

She looks eerily different, almost girlish in her soft curves. But still bloody marvelous.

"Had that hanging about, did you?" Hatter breathes, feeling anticipation and need and boy, something _else_ coil tight in his guts, and he has to let it out, has to--

He raises himself, reaches forward to take the hem of her skirt between his thumb and forefinger, rubs at it wonderingly, as though at any moment she might be gone in a wisp of smoke. Then he traces his hand up her knee.

"Uh uh," says Alice. She takes a step back. "Tea first."

Hatter's mouth goes dry. Of all the ridiculous, arcane, impossible-- Oh. Tea.

"Lovely," he says, meaning it. He follows her into the kitchen, where she's laid the table with all his favorite things, and hers, crumpets and cucumber sandwiches and half a package of Garibaldis. Also, by the smell of it, a steaming pot of Darjeeling.

And two place settings, across from each other. This is somewhat disconcerting: Hatter has grown used to sitting so close to her at meals that they might well have been sharing the same plate, but all the better to keep their hands entwined and touch their bodies at the shoulder, making room only for each other.

"After you," Alice says, pointing to the far seat.

Hatter takes it, and Alice pours tea for them both, two lumps for him and milk for her.

It's delicious. And the heat of it goes a long way to settling the knot in his stomach, though not quite. He ventures, "Tell me, my dear. What's your game?"

Alice arches a brow, but doesn't answer at first. Instead, she takes a long, slow sip of tea, and Hatter eyes the pale curve of her throat as she swallows it down.

And then, coyly, she says, "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Hatter munches down a sandwich half. She can't intend to let this go on for long -- but he knows her well enough to sense that it's more than just her having a laugh. She's enjoying it in the same languid way a cat might sup from a too-full bowl of cream.

So Hatter plays along. "All right. Would you like to hear a riddle then, child?"

Alice smiles. "Yes."

"Each morning I appear to lie at your feet," Hatter says, inching forward in his chair.

"All day I will follow no matter how fast you run." He takes Alice's hand where it rests atop the table and runs his thumb over her knuckles, then strokes to her wrist, feeling her pulse.

"Yet I nearly perish in the midday sun." Slowly, too slowly, he pulls her closer, and lowers his voice to a whisper so that his words ghost across her lips. "Who am I?"

"My shadow," Alice murmurs back.

A low, pleased chortle rises from Hatter's throat. "Well done."

Alice tastes like she always does, more spicy than sweet, but Hatter needs more. He pushes out of his chair and bridges the distance between them. Immediately, her hands are on his face, brushing at the tufts of hair which spring out from beneath his hat, and she brings him closer.

Between kisses, he says, "Would you like to hear another riddle, Alice?"

"Yeah," Alice replies, a little breathlessly. "That'd be good."

"What has a head, four brass legs, and is rather good to lie on?"

Alice doesn't need to be asked twice. She all but drags Hatter down the hall to the bedroom. Then she drops onto the bed, falling back against what is really a quite ludicrous mound of pillows.

"Leave your hat on," she says.

This isn't a new request. And Hatter is happy to oblige.

As steadily as he's able, he unlatches his belt, then works at his button and zip before letting his trousers drop to his ankles. He steps out of them. "All right?" he asks.

Alice just nods. Yep, like a cat with the cream. She eyes him up and down appreciatively, but doesn't make a move to take her own clothes off. Which is a job Hatter's also happy to oblige.

A few moments more, and he's out of his boxers, then his shirt -- he's left the cravat for last, and he takes care to admire the fine, cool weave before he unties it and whirls it off his neck, launching it onto the bed with as much panache as he's able.

Then he sets to work on Alice.

Right shoe. A kiss, then a nip at her stockinged big toe. Then the left.

"Don't tease," Alice huffs.

"Me? Tease?" Hatter sidles onto the bed and begins to slide his hands up her thighs, beneath her skirt. She's so bloody _hot_. Like a furnace, and it almost takes Hatter's breath away, so great is the urge to hold her now, to drive her to madness. But he steels himself. One neat pull later, and the stockings come off. Then the knickers.

Alice eyes the cravat. Hatter searches her face for permission. Would she--

"Please, Hatter."

Hatter guides her wrists to the bed frame, gently knots the cravat around them to bind her to it.

"You, my dear, have been rather naughty."

"I didn't--"

"Shh, shh," Hatter says. He rubs at her hands to make sure she's not uncomfortable -- or only just. And then strokes her arms, avoiding the spots he knows are ticklish; kisses the hollow of her throat. "You're an upstart." Mouths the curve of her breasts through the lace of her bodice. "And impertinent. Who knows the sort of trouble you may be capable of. You, of all the girls in all the world."

"Nothing in the world makes any sense," Alice half-whispers.

Hatter pushes her skirt up again, parts her knees, and settles enough to push into her: yes, this is the sort of person to bring down the whole house of cards. _Alice._

Again: his Alice.

Alice uses her legs to encircle him, to press her to him, and the layers of taffeta and mesh between them rub at Hatter's stomach as he moves, adding an edge to the softness of everything else. It's only a few minutes before he's coming, and so is she, like wind through the trees, like a bottle of his best Effervesce.

Hatter unties her; immediately, her arms wind around his neck. "Oh, Hatter."

"What's all this?" he asks against the swell of her shoulder. Then he pushes back far enough to see her face: she's smiling, and he suddenly thinks that this would be quite grand enough of a gift on its own.

"You know," Hatter says, after a pause. "It's more fun to not make sense when one has company."

"But we do," says Alice.

Not even meaning to, Hatter returns her smile. "So. How about that tea? It'd be a shame to let it get cold--"

"Still hungry?" Laughing, Alice pushes the brim of his hat over his eyes, throwing him into darkness, and kisses him soundly on the mouth.

Hatter _is_ still hungry. But that's the way unbirthdays work: there'll always be another quite soon.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Joanna Newsom song "Only Skin."


End file.
